when boredom comes knocking
by aurawyn69
Summary: like every other teenager in the world, both mello and matt are definitely susceptible to boredom. except mello pounces on things when he does. swearing.


matt strolls lazily into the room with loping strides, orange tinted goggles askew around his neck and striped shirt leaning haphazardly on his thin frame.

as he walks, he lifts a bony hand to shift the auburn and copper streaked fringe dusting his curved eyelashes, and it's impossible to not to notice that his lithe fingers are corded with veins from countless hours on any available gaming console. realising he's nearing his destination, he succinctly enunciates the word "fuck", forming each vowel expertly despite the thin cancer stick extending from between his lips, as casually as he would be uttering a simple greeting, although he supposes, it's not a greeting to out of the ordinary, especially considering who's in earshot.

in response, mello, who is leaning delicately against a windowsill, raises a pale eyebrow as he carelessly slings the platinum blonde bangs whipping around his head behind his ears. it's a known fact that mello's voice is intrusive by nature, and the mild tinge of sarcasm doesn't help as the words slip off his tongue.

"care to explain?"

a sigh deflates matt's chest. "dude. are you really not noticing it's hella fuckin' cold in here?"

restraining himself from staring too blatantly at mello's naked torso, matt flops onto the bed, burrowing into the covers with the grace of a blind elephant, shivering a little as he leaves his nose and mop of sexily messy hair exposed to the still blowing wind.

"oh.. right. it's only an open window though, you knave."

and with that, mello returns to enthusiastically obliterating the now rapidly disappearing rectangle of dark chocolate clasped in his hand, savouring the rich taste as it melts down his throat. rolling his eyes and shrugging the blanket more comfortably over his shoulders, the redhead across him began to batter at his handheld, fingertips flicking without hesitation even as his eyes are surreptitiously running over mello.

even though he's noticed before, it doesn't fail to catch matt's attention that mello's eyes are a dark sort of blue, the kind that lurks in seas of ice and storms of rainwater, above blunt cheekbones pulling under his skin like knives and full lips stained dark brown with now liquid chocolate, an almost feline tongue collecting them. the whole composition of angles on his face is fierce and dramatic, an arrangement of porcelain under a whispery curtain of fine blonde hair of a startlingly light shade; the only things that give away his russian descent, as his body is lean instead of obviously muscular and his entire appearance sees angelic instead of rugged.

attention torn from the chocolate for a torturous second, mello mumbles "hell're you staring at?" while unceremoniously trying to close a mouth full of the craving he still hasn't satisfied nor has the heart or willpower to suppress.

".. game, asshat."

it's the quick, unthinking reply that matt's lips form, and mello seems almost disappointed, the fall of his face so quick and subtle anyone else would've missed it. an accompanying "oh" leaks almost imperceptibly out of his lips, unwittingly becoming something matt will overanalyse and take apart in times of leisure. matt surmises that this is one such time and opportunity to do just that, but before he can slowly and agonizingly confuse himself to death, there's a hot writhing, breathing mess on top of him, forcing him onto the small of his back and propelling whatever unwelcome creature settling on him into a straddling position.

matt's brain is scrambling to compute and his heart is beginning to overcompensate with irregular thumps of panic, because matt has a confession and it simply goes along the lines of, he hates contact. he hates it but craves it, and mello pushes this to his attention approximately 50 million times a day, just as he's doing right now.

a flurry of silvery-gold strands of silk are dangling and mixing with his own bronzey-earth tangles, and there are oh so familiar and peculiar dark blue eyes staring mischievously into his own gray green ones as an amatory voice twines into his ears.

"mattie. i'm kinda reaaally bored."

it's dangerous when mello gets like this, but it's addictive as all hell too, as undercurrents of threat and eccentricity and just full on seduction dances in every slant and bend of his articulation. even without the increasingly compromising position of both their bodies, matt is always obliged to say yes, to indulge mello's progressively impulsive and volatile schemes and almost childishly excitable demeanour, if only to see a mere flash of his instigative smirk.

however, more pressingly, with mello's pounce applying all kinds of pressure to every inch of nerve on matt's skin, matt finds himself willing to agree to every single one of mello's ideas, no matter how nonsensical or psychopathic. realising he's taking way too long to reply to a seemingly innocuous statement, the usually blasé redhead fumbles around his diminutive sentence, stuttering over words he's used a million times, to deadpan "that's such a foreign concept, mels. enlighten me?".

for roughly two seconds, mello has the cutest scrunch in his forehead, apparently unable to decide whether to frown or whether to gift matt with an unhurried snicker. and underneath him, matt is shifting his hips with a brand of casualty he really isn't feeling right now, in a vain attempt to distribute mello's meagre weight more evenly across his abdomen. there's a little sigh emanating from mello, sounding almost like a contented hum, though when matt snaps his eyes upwards to gauge what mello's thinking, he has an almost wolfish grin playing on his lips.

"wanna play?"

he's nonchalantly drawing out the words, paying no mind to whatever connotations or innuendos his offhand sentence could be mistaken for, although everyone who knows mello would probably agree that that particular result is the one he unabashedly wants.

truth is, mello doubts matt will actually ascertain just what the hell he really wants, because it's matt, who is so enamoured with his simplistic, orange hued world of video games, cigarettes and sleep that he still hasn't figured out that mello flirts his face off every fucking day of the month. and sure enough, matt's eyes light up, a thin smile nudging up the left corner of his bottom lip, despite the rising flush adorning his cheeks with a slight rouge.

"witcher III? friggen' hell, come at me, bitch."

there's a beat or two, before; "uh. no."

and then mello is zoned out for no explicable or even logical reason, and even matt, who huffs noticeably enough that the discreet movement of his body bounces mello slightly, can't seem to rouse his attention. not that matt is really minding or especially bothered by it, because god, didn't anyone realise he bloody loves staring?

matt's thoughts are meandering through thoughts so cheesy he'd never admit it to himself, but these are the things that keep his toes warm and his eyes sparkling at night; thoughts like how unbelievably beautiful mello is, how sharp and warm and unmistakably real he feels when they touch. and predictably, he ambles down the road of how mello would kiss. how the fireworks would rival a nuclear bomb, and how the electricity could overpower every lightning strike that has ever sliced through the sky. and before he knows it, blood is rushing up to his cheeks and almost hiding his freckles in their intensity.

"flipping shitcakes, that's cute as hell." leaning in closer, mello peers at the soft compilation of cells that compose matt's spectacularly sanguine cheeks, endeavouring to curb the annoying urge to stroke his best friend's friggen' cheek.

mello flings himself off matt, snatching a chocolate bar as his body rotates in a complicated flip off the bed, executing it perfectly with the precision of a perfectionist, which hell fucking yes he was. as he rights his slender body, he discovers he's in a prime position to watch matt stretching his lanky mess of a body out, while matt unconsciously finds himself grunting in utter disbelief.

"THAT'S ALL?"

but of course, the thought is self-contained and remains in his head, and as he shakes his head to fix his hair and clear the directions of his conscious, mello's voice slashes crystal clear into his psyche.

"for the love of- what's confusing you now?"

jerked from his reverie, matt's eyes widen all of their own accord, almost as if he'd clean forgotten mello was in his proximity, which gave him enough butterflies as it was. the donuts surrounding his eyes are magnifying and making him look deliciously vulnerable, and the best bloody plan mello's ever had is starting to bloom into fruition in his mind.

"no more smokes for you, dork."

before matt can sufficiently comprehend the ostensibly innocent sentence flung at him, there are two thin fingers prying the thin cylinder away from his mouth. instantly, he growls, and his entire expression resembles one of a puppy that's been deceived and what's more, deprived.

"mello.. i need, that back."

there's the slimmest undertone of shaded threat hidden in the cracks and deep crevices in matt's hurt voice, and his bottom lip is jutting out at an angle so immaculately adorable that it's irresistible, especially with a shade of red that should be fucking outlawed and forbidden in however many states there are in the world.

"matt, i mean this, so do it. shut the hell up."

which matt definitely, definitely does, because mello's hands are threading through every lock and faintly wavy tress of his hair and he's powerless to stop his own arms sliding immediately around his best friend's, for crying out loud, his BEST friend's so very fragile waist because they're kissing and their lips are melting in the most luscious and delicious tastes of darkly decadent chocolate and smoke the specific taste of wood and each other that honestly?

it's just fucking awesome.


End file.
